Sunday Morning Promises
by DonnaGnocchi
Summary: Earlier tonight, Byron didn't want anything to do with me, but after a silly alcohol induced nightmare, he doesn't want to let me go.


Author's Note: I do not own Watchmen or anything like that. I make no profit from this story. Yadda yadda yadda, none of you read this part...

March 23, 1946, 10:00 pm

Byron and I are having a fight. A big fight. Biggest we have had; nothing that can't be remedied with a few days of schmoozing and kissing up, but big all the same.

He is so insecure. Gets it into his head that I am cheating on him with somebody, like I would be nuts enough to throw away what we have on some trivial, promiscuous sex. I tell him he is crazy, and that does not sit well. He starts yelling, and I can tell he has been drinking. He only ever raises his voice when he has had something to drink. He's accusing me, pointing to instances that make no sense and, instead of being smart and reassuring him, I take the defensive, because his accusations hurt. Shouting, I ask him why he can't trust me, but with more swearing and personal insults mixed in. He shuts up immediately and walks away.

I know I have fucked up when he goes to the closet and retrieves his costume and another change of clothes. He is silent except for mumbles that he isn't a drunk, which must have been one of my insults, and a muttered statement that he is sleeping at his office. I let him go. It will do no good for me to run after him, saying I didn't mean it, because in all truth, I did. It hurts that he has trouble trusting me, and the way he flirts with alcohol abuse reminds me too much of my uncle. Apologizes will seem more sincere in the morning.

March 24, 1946, 2:00 am

There is a knock at my door, and every fiber of my being hopes it is Byron. I never know how much I need his body next to me at night to sleep until he is not there. I rush to the door, but it is not him. It's Hollis.

He looks more peeved than I have seen him before, but 2 in the morning is never friendly to anyone, especially when you operate on as little sleep as us masked heroes do. He says my little boyfriend, the condescending tone duly noted, was knocking on his door just as he was falling asleep and has been crying in his apartment ever since, and that he insist that I come over and remedy the problem. His mood immediately lightens as I rush to get my clothes and coat, waiting for me by the door with his arms crossed and a smile. Byron has found quite a boyfriend in you, he says. I say I try, but it's a lie. It is easy to give Byron anything and everything as long as it means that he will be a little happier.

March 24, 1946, 3:00 am

Byron is sitting on the bed in Hollis' guestroom, back pressed against the wall, knees pulled to his chest, and his face buried in his arms. The sound of sobs breaks as he tells Hollis to go away. How about Bill, I try to ask jokingly, can he stay? His head lifts, tear-filled eyes full of shock, and he is tackling me before I can even get a chuckle out.

His face is buried in my chest, nuzzling and sobbing, and I wrap my arms around him, savoring the closeness, missing the feel of his body even though I had only been without it for a few hours. I am so lost in him; it takes me a moment to register the tears soaking my shirt. Sorrys are spilling out between each choked sob and I feel guilt spilling over me. My own apologies start to flow and we are kissing sweet make up kisses, soft and sweet and almost shy, just like every kiss with Byron, and I know we are going to be ok.

March 24, 1946, 3:15 am

My legs are tired from standing here holding him for so long. I lift him up and throw him over my shoulder, relishing his giggles mixed with leftover tears as I do so. I toss him on the bed, joining him shortly and let him snuggle up to me. He makes no attempt to sleep, but glues his eyes to me, like he was trying to memorize my face. Then his hands are on me, reviewing my body with soft touches, as if trying to remind himself I was here. Phantom tears are returning to his eyes and my concern swoops back.

He is staring past me for a moment to my bag sitting by the door, asking me what it is for. I smile, and say that I thought I might be preoccupied by a cute little moth boy all night and I didn't think I would have time to run back to the apartment and grab my costume for my bank meeting in the morning. The word bank startles him, and his eyes go wide and his breath is caught in his throat.

This was about more than our fight, I can tell. The way he is shivering now tells me something's got him spooked, something that will take something more than a few kisses to smooth over. Still, for good measure, I press another to his forehead, and ask him what is wrong.

Tears escalate, and he is babbling, not able to get out more than a few nonsensical words between sobs.

Bank robbers, he mumbles into my chest, cape…caught…bank…shot…dead…you died…please don't leave me alone…I love you Bill…please…I didn't mean what I said earlier…I love you…please don't leave me alone.

He is talking so fast I can barely get a word in, but my eyes are wide at the mention of my death. I died, I ask, and he nods solemnly. I am confused for a moment, but then remember what alcohol does to Byron's mind. I tilt his chin up and smile at him as sweetly as I can manage. You were having a nightmare sweetie, I explain.

I'm laughing at how nauseating my baby talk sound, but it is so easy to slip into that sickening sweet talk with Byron, dropping pet names and love words. Normally Byron would call me on it, but he is simply too distraught right now to care.

Don't go tomorrow he asks softly. I must look puzzled because he clarifies. The meeting, the meeting at the bank tomorrow, he begs me not to go. It was just a dream, I tell him. He doesn't have to worry. But he is still crying, says he doesn't want me to die. I stop protesting and pull him closer, rubbing his back soothingly, trying to tell him that we will be ok, that no one is going to die. We look out for each other and I won't let anything hurt him. We just sit in silence for a moment, enjoying each other's warmth.

I must admit, it scares me how worried he is, but at the same time it is soothing. Earlier tonight, Byron didn't want anything to do with me, but after a silly alcohol induced nightmare, he doesn't want to let me go. As he kisses my neck, working his way up to my cheek, nothing in me doubts his previous words. He loves me, and I love him.

Just don't go tomorrow, he pleads once more, please just stay with me. I am about to protest once more when I realize that spending the morning cuddling with Byron is just what I want. I can sacrifice one meeting, one stupid publicity stunt or whatever they have planned for me, for the sake of Byron's ease of mind. I plant a kiss on him and promise I will spend all morning with, and all afternoon, and all freakin' day if he wants. He smiles at me and thanks me, burring himself in my chest before drifting asleep.

March 24, 1946, 5:18 am

Hollis brings me the phone I didn't even hear ring, saying my bank pimps are calling for their whore. I ignore his foul language. I have surely cost him enough sleep tonight to excuse his bad mood.

My manager says he has been calling everywhere for me and found Hollis' number on my emergency number list. I doubt this is an emergency but listen anyway. He says my meeting has been pushed up to 8:00 and that it is of upmost importance that I am there. Important talk of my contract and such. The bank is considering dropping me, not bringing enough publicity. Byron wakes halfway through, hearing me promise my manager I will get there.

He sits up and I see his face drop in horror, the fear of last night's conversation reinstated. I insist I will be careful and everything will be fine, but I can tell he is not put at ease by my words. You promised, he says, screw that bank, your life is more important. I smile at his concern, and once again insist I will be ok. It is only a board meeting, after all. No danger of criminals shooting me as my cape gets stuck in a window or whatever such nonsense he had dreamed up.  
He looks contemplative, then looks at me with questioning eyes. Asks me to promise him something else. I agree with a smile, and he asks me to pick him up a chocolate bar from the store on my way home. I can see what he is doing, giving me an excuse to rush home, and making me promise something that guarantees my survival of whatever horrors lie at the bank for its fulfillment. I say I will buy him two and we can share, plus we still have the rest of the morning to share together before I go. That gets a smile, a sad one, but still a smile.

He is suddenly flinging his arms around my neck, pulling me into a kiss slightly more assertive than I am used to from him. It is refreshing, in a way, though I never tire of my shy little moth.  
Make love to me, he says, and I am shocked. He has never been an instigator when it comes to sex. In fact, sometimes I doubt he really likes it, that sex is something he gives me because I like it, like his sort of sacrifice in the relationship. Please, make love to me, he says again, just in case it is the last time. I want to memorize how you feel in me, he says, in case you don't come back. I assure him I'll come back, but am still more than happy to give into his request.

March 24, 1946, 5:24 am

He is definitely more aggressive than usual, almost panicked in the way he is fumbling with the buttons on my shirt, giving up briefly to quickly pull off his own, then returning the task of my buttons. His hands are shaking and I grab his wrists to steady him. You don't have to hurry, I say, we have all morning.

He whimpers and pulls me down to his lips again, shaking frantically as he again tries to remove my shirt. I brush his hands away and undo the buttons myself, letting his hands fall around my neck. Arms slowly constrain me like a boa constrictor. His kiss feels like he is sucking the breath right out of me. We break with a gasp and he is fumbling at my pants, but once unbuttoned, he returns a bit to his normal shy self, blushing at his actions.

I gently push him to the bed, lips locking briefly with his. My hands move to the back of his shoulders and lower him down until my hands are trapped underneath him. Down his back, fingers brush his spine and he is shivering. They hook the back of his pajama pants and he shyly lifts his hips to allow me to remove them, clenching his eyes closed and blushing like mad.  
I don't understand why he is always so embarrassed; we have done this plenty of times before. He told me once he was ashamed of his body; that he was scrawny and ugly next to me, but he must have been joking, because he is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Bashfully, his legs are spread and I am being tugged towards him. My fingers run everywhere, brushing against his closed eyelids, running down the arch of his foot, making him twitch with a giggle, petting his soft belly as I laid a kiss on his inner thigh. He squirms as I lap at the sensitive skin between the juncture of his thigh and his torso and I am not sure if he is trying to get away or get me closer.

His face is hot when I enter him. The intensity of our first time never lessening in our many times together, I still feel as if I might finish without even moving. Now he is clutching me to him, propping himself up to whisper in my ear, I love you Bill, don't ever leave me. I tell him I never will.

It is over too soon, but we are both exhausted. I see he is fighting sleep, trying desperately to keep his eyes open and get one more look at me. It's ok, I whisper, get some rest. But what if you're not here when I wake up, he whimpers. I kiss his forehead as his eyes finally remain closed. I will always be here.

March 24, 1946, 7:22 am

Byron had fallen asleep against my chest, and I didn't have the heart to wake him up. I scoot my way out of his grasp and sneak off to shower. Board members finding out Dollar Bill is fucking Mothman would not be ideal for my contract.

As water runs over me, I think of his voice, his pretty sleeping face, how good life is going to be for us. One day we will kick this super hero thing, when the world doesn't need us anymore, and retire somewhere in the countryside. I will help Byron kick his drinking and he'll help me through my hero-worship withdrawal and we will watch the sun set drinking iced tea and watching neighbor kids play in the yard. He would like that, I think, a quiet life. I wonder absent-mindedly if he would like a family and what kind of fathers we would be, teaching a little boy or girl how to ride a bike or fend off bullies.

March 24, 1946, 7:30 am

He is still sleeping once I get out, but has since curled himself into a ball to compensate for my lost body heat. I smile at his shivering form and attempt to untangle the knotted covers we kicked off mid-morning. No such luck. I grab a piece of paper of Hollis' desk and scribble him a quick note before removing my cape and draping it over him, pinning the note to the excess fabric.

A smile crosses my lips as he snuggles into its warmth, sighing contently. I'm sure the bank will bitch about me not having it, but I can take it if it keeps Byron happy. It is easy to give up anything and everything as long as it means that Byron will be a little happier.

March 24, 1946, 10:00am

He woke up, warm in his partner's death trap of a cape and let out a cry of joy as he read the note left for him.

_Had do leave early. Hope this makes you a bit more comfortable. Sleep well. I'll be back with your chocolate before you know it._

_I love you,_  
_Bill_

He looked over at the night stand and saw two chocolate bars staring back at him accompanied by another note.

_I am downstairs. Don't eat them without me._

He rushed downstairs

...

And, if you will excuse the cliché, they lived happily ever after


End file.
